He steps out of the shadows, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a black shirt fitted tightly across his muscles and scar. His eyes — cold, steady, the kind that never flinch. Greg doesn’t need to raise his voice to command. He’s been shaping me since I was ten, teaching me how to break bones before I knew how to fix my own mistakes.
“Greg.”
No warmth in the word, but respect. Always respect. He falls into step beside me. Together, we move down the corridor lined with portraits of the Petrov bloodline. Their painted eyes follow, judging, demanding. Legacy doesn’t just breathe in this house — it suffocates.
“How is he?” My question slices the silence.
Greg’s answer is blunt, clipped.
“Alive. Barely. A week down there hasn’t done him favors.” His glance brushes me, cold amusement at the corner of his mouth. “You here to finish the job?”
I shrug, the corner of my lip twitching.
“Maybe.” I say with a shrug, “Igor and Ivana still here?”
“Yes. However, they went to your father’s estate this morning. Ivana wanted to visit the stables. Igor is out somewhere with Maksim. Likely stirring trouble.”
Of course. Ivana is always chasing peace, and Igor likes chasing chaos. Children of Anya — my father’s sister, the one who took over my grandfather’s tobacco empire in Russia before she was even old enough. Ruthless in her silence. Her kids aren’t far behind.
We stop at the grandfather clock at the hall’s end, its hands frozen in eternal midnight. Greg presses his palm against the panel hidden behind it. A low click echoes, stone grinding as the wall parts. A breath of stale air rises. The hidden staircase yawns before us, spiraling down into firelight and shadow.
We descend in silence, the sound of our footsteps echoes off the walls — measured and deliberate. Down here, nothing breathes unless we allow it to. When we reach the bottom, we walk past closed steel door cells, almost all of them filled with offenders or betrayers. When we get to a particular door, Greg punches in the code. The locks unlatch, one by one.
The door swings open.
I step inside.
He’s there.
Jeremy.
Strapped to the metal chair, head down, a line of blood dried at the corner of his lip. His arms are tied, his shirt torn, his face bruised and purple from earlier damage.
His head lifts slowly at the sound of the door. His eyes land on me and widen.
The recognition hits.
He doesn’t know my name. Doesn’t know who I am.
But he remembers. He remembers the night I showed up at his apartment, when my fists left him bleeding on the floor. The last time he saw me, I was close to shattering his face in, and Maksim had to drag me off before I finished the job.
His voice cracks now, thin and brittle.
“Look, man… please. Just—just tell me why you’re doing this.”
I tilt my head, studying him the way you study something broken. Jeremy—the big guy, the gym rat. Muscles stacked on his frame like armor, armor he’s used to corner people weaker than him. To corner Lucas. He’s built himself up on protein shakes and intimidation, and still, just one punch from me had him curled on the floor like a child.
His bloodshot eyes meet mine now, and his panic deepens.
“What do you want?” he seethes, and this time I smile.
The door creaks open behind me, and a guard steps in, dragging someone else behind him. The man’s face is swollen, his lip split open, wrists tied with thick rope. He stinks of piss and sweat. Whatever he did to end up here, I don’t care. He’s just a piece on the board now.
The guard shoves him down onto the chair beside Jeremy. The two are seated side by side. A new type of fear blooms inJeremy’s eyes, the kind that comes when you realize this isn’t just about you anymore.
Another guard enters.
Carrying a black suitcase, he opens it on the table beside me, and nestled in the velvet lining is a revolver.
